Wax Character
by Elihu
Summary: Read the script. Be a character. Play it convincingly and win 100,000 dollars. Because you are who we say you are.
1. Decisions: Shave, Fashion, Cousin

He stares at the mirror intently. He's silently focused on the black hair that rests mournfully above his brow; it's textured, cut randomly and unevenly but matted down to the length of his eyes, grown thickly, longer than average, covering portions of his face and a great deal of his neck.

"Damn it..."

He sighs and looks away briefly, to the bare beige walls and the matching marble of the sink before him. Leaning in, eyes scan the reversed image of forehead from left to right. Several moments of uneasy silence drag on before the stillness is broken with another sigh. He leans in even further and begins raising the object in his right hand to his head.

"Damn. It."

His gazes settles on the mirrored reflection before him: a bottle of green hair dye rests on a stack of black t-shirts with white skulls emblazoned on the front. The stack smells like new cardboard, having arrived only yesterday in the mail along with the glowing green bottle and only recently pulled out of their box.

The final sigh.

"Gotta do what you gotta do..."

He clicks the switch on the side and the object in his hand buzzes to life.

"Green mohawk, it is."

He brings the razor to his head.

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"Mmm, if you get any sweeter, I'm gonna have to eat this page..." she murmurs to herself with a smile, and licks her right forefinger. The flimsy page flips loosely with the finger trailing idly behind it, settling on the image of semi-transparent mauve cloth, and following the outline around the hem of the dress to the figure smiling glamorously from the gloss of the magazine.

"You don't even know what you have on, do you?" Her smile hangs absentmindedly. "And you'd wear anything that makes your boobs pop out, wouldn't you?"

Giggles come from beneath the studio desk where she lays on her stomach, face lazily propped by a pillow and an arm; the gentle laughs echo out and quickly become muffled behind the stacks of cloth that cover the bedroom. The floor, the bed, the open closet, even the desk above her is covered with little neat piles of greens and blues, reds and yellows, pastel hues and cool shades. The open door to the room is nearly blocked by various piles of material with various garments draped across messily.

"You almost _DONE _with that_ ROOM,_ **SWEETY**?"

"Yeah, Mom!" she yells back, jumping up at the sudden sound and hitting her head on the desk. The pain on her head is enough to make her wince and clumsily crawl out from her former hiding spot.

Her eyes wander around the room, over the heaps of the already-made and almost-made and barely-started and still-in-its-bare-elements – the testaments to her favorite after-school activity; she gives it all the most threatening look she can muster and the stacks glare even more menacingly in return. She shrinks and plops back onto the floor, ready to lose herself again in her favorite magazine when an envelope falls out from behind the magazine.

"Huh... must've come with it in the mail..."

She tears it open, unfolds the letter inside, and scans it slowly. It is long and wordy, containing clusters of paragraphs with unfamiliar jargon and dull colors. She flips to another page that is brighter, more colorful, and less cluttered with writing. It's message is plain and she reads closely.

Around her, it seems as if the piles of cloth are leaning to try to read over her shoulder.

She stops suddenly and jumps up with wild eyes and clenched teeth.

"They want to call me Le-WHAT!?"

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He's smiling because it's what he does. It usually settles people around him and prevents people from getting too worked up. He smiles when normal things happen, but mostly whenever he doesn't understand what's happening around him. And he definitely does not understand what's happening to him now.

"... ...ya... okay... si... ... que... ... hmm... ... selected to be a part of... ... hmm... and share in... ... ... que es esta mamada?... ... wonderful opportunity... ... yeah, yeah, yeah... ... ... ... HAH!"

His cousin turns to him and smiles happily. "No manches. Vas a estar en la tele, guey!" His smile is wide, a bit goofy and toothy, too. But it's a lot like his own and it usually makes him feel more at ease. Except for now.

"Ey, Carnal! Estar. En. El. TEE. VEE. Chingao! Did you know about this?"

Out of all the people in the world, his cousin Monolo understands him the best. They've shared everything together: river expeditions after school, tag team fights on school playgrounds, family pets dying of old age, and running through the desert in the cold night under hot searchlights. There is no one in the world – not even his parents working back at home – that understands him as well as his bloodbrother Monolo.

But sometimes, he just doesn't understand Monolo.

"A... bout... what?"

"Esto, cabron! Esta carta!" Monolo motions at the letter he's holding, the letter mysteriously addressed to him despite no one but the school knowing his "home" address.

He stands confused, baffled even, with the shears dangling from his gloved hands. The sweat drips down from the corner of his dirty baseball cap and rolls over the bronze skin.

"Mira, Juan... esta carta..."

All of a sudden, an older man walks buy and stares them up and down.

"Que mamadas estan haciendo, ahora?"

"Nada, Papa!" Manolo says quickly, smiling sweetly to his father and holding the letter behind his back. He motions to a nearby crate full of oranges and makes a very serious face. "Working. Trabajando como un negro!"

His father answers with a grunt and ignores his suspicious behavior. "Bueno, trabajen mas rapido, muchachos. No tenemos mucho tiempo."

After he leaves, Manolo pulls out the letter again and begins speaking English. "Mira, Juan. I know you have less experience with this English than I do. Pero, listen, you can understand pretty good, right?"

Juan nods his head intently, which looks strange when coupled with his constant smile, and pretends to be packing away oranges to not attract any more suspicions from the other migrant workers in the orange grove.

"Okay, Juan." Manolo relaxes and smiles his matching grin. "The letter is inviting you to compete in a contest... A contest on a faraway island..."

A half hour passes as the two cousins discuss – rather, Manolo describes and Juan listens – the letter's contents. As the sun sets, they argue a solution as they pack their materials away and head for a pickup truck at the entrance to the grove. By the time the California sun starts setting, they've already reached a decision.

"Oh yeah, guey!" Manolo adds in a whisper as they ride back home in the bed of the truck, nestled between crates of oranges. "Se me olvi— I mean... I forgot to tell you..."

He smiles mischievously and smacks Juan Gael Hernandez-Castro on the side of the head playfully.

"They want you to change your name to something gay like Justin!"

Manolo laughs the entire ride back home.

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	2. Decisions: Calculus, Poetry, Cancer

He's already started his droning when she enters late.

"...we reviewed that the limit could be solved by 'substituting infinity' although we made sure to note that the idea is theoretically impossible and only a concept created in order to facilitate..."

The teacher is already used to all of it. Her whims. Her capricious mood. Her unwavering confidence. Her flawless grades. He had attempted to discipline her early in the year, before he had heard anything about her from numerous other teachers, and had been met with intercession by the administration on her behalf: 'She is needed this week after school for important school matters. Detention is not the most convenient response,' the official email had said. 'She has us strung up by our necks,' the subtext of the note lamented loudly.

"...that sometimes, pure substitution does not work perfectly. For example, the limit of sine of x over x as x approaches zero requires that..."

The students are murmuring. They always murmur a little bit when she comes in to classroom or convinces a teacher to excuse her from a test or makes a boy start stuttering merely by smiling. This time, there is something unusually loud about their hurried whispers. He tries to ignore it and move on with the review, but it's hardly the usual mutterings.

"...famous..."

"...I heard..."

"...chosen..."

"...a model?..."

"...I heard..."

"...was going to be in a movie!..."

"...such a total bit..."

"...I heard..."

"_Alright_, class! _May_ I **continue** with the lecture?"

Grumbles of 'yes, Mr. Wright' reach the front and he continues writing on the board. He shakes his head as he does and wonders what sins he committed to be forced to deal with her, what tragic flaw cornered him into the infernal situation in which he found himself. He stops again when he realizes nobody is paying attention again. Spinning around, he throws her a look and motions challengingly.

"Would you like to tell us what the answer to the question is?"

She sits in her desk, legs crossed beneath a skirt, hands folded innocently on the top of her desk, mouth already formed to make a reply.

"The limit of sine of x over x as x approaches zero is one, Mr. Wright."

He's not surprised, she always knew the answer, but it made him feel a bit more in control of the class if he could pretend that he directed the attention of the students toward her, not their own insatiable curiosity.

"Also, Mr. Wright, if I could make a brief announcement to the class?" She doesn't even wait for him to reply as she stands up and faces her peers with a smile that makes several male breaths stop and even more female eyes stare with a mix of love and jealousy.

"I received a letter in the mail yesterday afternoon and, in a few short weeks, I will be a contestant on an upcoming reality television show called _Total Drama Island_."

The class is quiet.

"When I get famous, you can all say you know me."

The whispers are loud sarcastic-sounding comments of "Yeah, right!" that contain more honest appreciation than disdain for the granted acquaintanceship. More than one student makes up a story on the spot about how they became good friends with her before she was renowned.

"Also, I love you all and plan to share all the stories of my adventures when I return."

"Is there anything else you'd like to tell the class, Miss—"

She raises her hand and talks without permission again. "Oh no, Mr. Wright, that's not my name anymore..."

"Oh, is that so?" He crosses his arms with vague amusement. "And what is your name now, future detention resident?"

She smiles with absolute confidence and flips her blond hair. "My name is Bridgette."

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"...and we become the _you_ and the _me_ and the _us_... we become the _we_ of designation, the _us_ of product... We become. We become and we become and we become some more, and we lose the _am_ and gain the _will be_ of their choosing. 'Us and them' becomes 'we.'"

They clap softy. It's a dramatic reading, so it's expected that they give a mellow clap, but she knows that they just want her to get off the stage. She's not very good. She wishes she was good; more than anything in the world, she wishes she could express her thoughts in words without sounding like a whiny teenage brat, but she knows it's a skill that eludes her.

If only, she thinks to herself as she draws near the edge of the stage, I could get some help. But she knows it's useless, her school doesn't have accredited advanced placement classes, or even a tutoring program to speak of.

Still...

She reaches her table in the back, tosses her brown hair back, and drops her head into her palms, vaguely aware that other people in the room might still be watching her but not caring enough to indulge in her usual insecurities.

"...a broken pane of my mind..."

The readings continue onward.

Her mediocrity is forgotten beneath the better quality writing that follows. It is her only consolation, that her futile attempts rarely last long enough for anyone to call her out on her squandered efforts and convince her that she is wasting her time in the pursuit of a hopeless dream that...

There I go again, she thinks to herself. Stop oozing wangst!

She sighs and drops her head onto the table loudly. She prays no one notices and lifts her head slowly, trying to peer through the brown strands before realizing that there is a letter stuck to her forehead, making her look like a complete idiot.

It comes off easily enough and lays crumpled on the table before her.

She peers at it blankly, having already read it over a thousand times and discussed it thoroughly with both of her parents. It represents an opportunity for a break, a vacation away from her mediocre life and failed hobby.

She smiles and lets herself hope a tiny bit...

"I know I'll be a better writer as Lindsay..."

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They all love her.

And with good reason: she greets everyone by name, runs every volunteer organization in the school, and never disrespects her elders. She doesn't suck up and she's cut loose on the floor more than once at a school dance.

In spite of no make up and modest attire, a sizable population of the school's males go out of their way to talk to her between classes, and the school chapter of Habitat for Humanity is almost entirely composed of hopeful friends.

Simply put, everyone loves Heather.

She's already practicing responding to her new name, even writing "Heather" in her school planner and – only once – in her diary. It's an interesting name, nothing like her real one, but she thinks it will be fun to go incognito for a summer and get some exposure to the natural elements.

Even as she sits at the booth framing the entrance to the cafeteria — a giant poster with the words "Donate to Breast Cancer" propped against the bottom and a warm smile on her face — she already sees the friends she'll make.

Maybe they'll even be friends I can really talk to, she hopes to herself, with confessions and secrets and trust. The thoughts disappear as she calls out a plain-looking girl by name and asks her to help the cause. The girl jumps to life and trips over herself to give money, but doesn't ask her any personal questions.

She's packed, ready to go, and eager to begin a new, brief life. Excited doesn't begin to describe her state. Nervous is closer but still wrong. Her load is light and her expectations are high. It's all set to be the best summer yet.

The best summer of Heather's life.

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	3. Decisions: App, Sweater, Doll, Ceiling

Is it really the smartest thing to do, spending the summer in the woods for a television show?

He's just filling in time, really, finding something with which to occupy his summer. He already has the application for University of Toronto half-filled; it has his extracurricular activities and achievements splayed across the page, along with basic statistics and his full name – his real one, not the dopey moniker he was mailed several weeks ago.

"I mean – _really?_ – who still names their kid Noah?" he wonders aloud to a computer screen.

It would be something interesting to add to the resume, he had decided, something interesting and unique and different enough to make him seem well-rounded on official applications to financial aid and scholarships. Little things like this always go a long way with those academic types who are looking for something more than just asocial nerds, something more than just Asperger's-ridden geeks and run-of-the-mill geniuses.

"Alright, I'm doing it," he says flatly.

And he hopes he won't come to regret it.

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She's impatient and it's no secret. She's tapping her clunky black shoes listlessly, playing with the gray hem of her long sleeves, and pulling absentmindedly at the sides of her long skirt. The sweater she wears over her shirt is beginning to feel scratchy and tight. Before this, she admits to herself honestly, she didn't know what it felt like to be talked into insanity.

"...and you'll remember to wash the second set of clothes every third night?" the woman asks, with a face that seems to say she suspects the girl before her is not actually her daughter.

"And you will write to us on those days to keep to make sure you are doing fine," her father adds.

"Yes, father. Yes, mother."

She's watching the planes take off through her peripheral vision, taking in the full experience of being in an airport. There had been pictures of planes in her schoolbooks, but she'd never actually seen one up close, much less been in one. And as soon as her parents finished their instructions, that would change.

_If_ they ever finished...

"And, for heaven's sake..." Her mother leans closer and fiddles with the topmost button of her sweater, making sure it is fastened tightly. "...keep yourself covered up. You don't know what those..."

Her mother backs away, a little flustered, and her father takes her place. "Boys are untrustworthy. They are too young and undisciplined to be men. You are to be very careful when interacting. Do you hear me?"

She nods solemnly in response.

"You are to cover yourself up in public and mind your words and actions at all times."

Another somber nod.

"And..." He looks around the fluid crowds and reaches in his coat. "I want you to take this to protect yourself if you get in danger."

The glint as he pulls it out tells her it's her brother's old field knife.

"No!" Wide-eyed, she whispers loudly. "They won't let me through into the plane carrying that!"

"I think it's necessary that you take the precaution..."

"Yes. Father."

She takes the weapon quickly, careful not to seem disrespectful or ungrateful, and begins the process of departing from her family. They are a bit odd-looking, wearing conservative dress and speaking with a strange antiquity in their voice, but there are less heads turning towards them here in the airport than there have been in other parts of the city when they've visited.

Thirty minutes later, she's sitting in the leather seat and feeling hot.

The plane hasn't taken off, so she's still free to move around a bit, but really, she just wants to cool down. With a slow realization, she stops her fidgeting and peeks around the cabin: there's an old couple a couple seats in front of her and a girl far behind, no one that would really care if...

She breathes in deeply... and pulls off her sweater.

It takes her a couple of moments to let go of the breath and realize she isn't being berated by anyone. She leans back in her seat and loosens her posture, feeling fresh in nothing but her long skirt, long-sleeved shirt and undershirt, long socks and undergarments, and thick shoes.

Courtney has never felt so alive.

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Okay, she thinks to herself, that girl's pretty weird looking.

She saw her with her family in the airport terminal, all austere and stern, apparently enduring a preflight sermon from the father and a body search from the mother, and looking ready to bolt. Her clothes were... interesting. And the way she scrambled out of the sweater when she was on the plane made her think she didn't normally get to take it off.

Shrugging, her gaze returns to the back of the seat in front of her. She knows she shouldn't really be judging, being who she is. Everybody has different interests, she reminds herself. She exhales and peeks out of her seat. Maybe she's into...

And she lets herself smile a bit, reaching to a small bag she carries with her and unzipping the front. Inside, an ivory face smiles bemusedly back at her; the resin material is smooth and flawless and the hair is long and dyed beautifully. She loves her ball-jointed doll, and hates that the word "doll" is in the name. It's more like a model human being with its handmade clothes, posed features, and anime-like aesthetic. She's named it and taken pictures of it and given it a special place on her desk at home, where he watches her sleep at night.

It's a tad bit freaky.

Nervously looking around her, she zips the bag up and puts it back in the overhead compartment. Sighing, she opens her backpack and takes out a small book; flipping to the back, she opens the page and begins reading it backward.

There's no place for manga in competitive rowing circles.

Eva spends a lot of time training, so much time in fact, that she rarely has any left to read the list of Japanese comics that she's generated while in class. Most of her time outside of school is spent in weight rooms, on tracks, or on the water, going on long runs or tearing up the erg machines.

The exaggerated Japanese expressions on the page make her smile.

She gets one summer to live it up. She's not allowed to stop her training, as per coach's orders, but she can travel elsewhere and live among teens that aren't perpetually soaked or sweating off weight to lighten the boat. And maybe, she thinks, share some interests with friends?

It might be too much to ask for, she figures, but it never hurts to try.

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Izzy spends a lot of time looking at ceilings. They're separated, so removed from everything below them and they don't get as dirty as floors, she thinks to herself all the time CEILINGSIloveyou!

The ceilings at home are high and peach-colored. They make her feel hungry every time she looks up. One time, her dad tried to repaint the ceilings himself, even though her mom told him not to and that he would fall and break his back and die, and he did. But it was only his hip so he was okay.

The ceiling in her room is orange. It used to be bright, but it's faded and become softer over the years, and she likes it much better that way. Izzy spends a lot of time watching cartoons that she makes up in her head on that ceiling. Ninjadog is the best.

The ceiling in her bathroom is soothing. It's baby blue, the blue that makes you think of clear skies and beautiful eyes and pirates. She's Ophelia, captain of The Sea Siren, feared ruler of the Seven Seas, and bloodthirsty marauder. She's Beatrice, stowaway on the famed Golden Victory, struggling to survive a capsizing ship. Her mother gets mad when she splashes too much.

There is no ceiling outside, only the sky. The boring, old, dumb, cloudy sky. She was raised by the sky. And one time they exchanged bodies for a day. She spent the time looking down at everyone and everything in the world and realized that it was not nearly as fun as looking up. The sky spent the time failing her algebra quiz.

She can't remember what the garage ceiling looks like. Her mom says it's too dirty in there, too cluttered, and filled with dangerous things. Izzy tries to reassure her mom that Ninjadog knows how to handle chainsaws, but she doesn't listen. She just wants the chainsaw to herself.

The ceilings in hospitals are the worst of all because they're so boring. White, plain, undecorated in exam rooms. Mirrored in surgery rooms.

They've done all they can there, at the hospitals, and they've let her stay at home and come in for treatment for a year and a half now. She goes through the same routines everyday, staring up at the ceiling of whatever room she's trapped in that day feeling tired and holding staring contests with daylight. There's nothing to do and no one to do it with, and she's been dying to get out and go out and break out and freak out.

The doctor says it's fine if she goes camping, says maybe the fresh air will do her some good. But he says it as if he just wants to grant a dying girl's wish, and mostly, he just _does_ want to. Which is fine with Izzy, because it's the last thing it takes to convince her parents to let her spend what may be her last summer on this television camping reality show with other people her age.

Izzy has spent a lot of her life just looking up at ceilings, but that's changing now.

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	4. Arrival: Jesus, Kwanzaa, Mr Cool

"Owen. _Owen._ Owen…? Owen! Owen. Owenowenowenowen… Oh! When? **Oh**… _when?_"

He's not nervous. Why should he be? Hell, he's been acting he's entire life. His debut role was Baby Jesus at a Christmas play when he was six months old. He totally nailed the silent "divine child" part, too. Made every geriatric in a mile radius tear up at his radiant beauty. Since then, he's snagged lead roles left and right, even starred in a couple of self-written one acts and co-directed some longer plays.

So… reality show? No big deal. Even if it wasn't really a reality show, per se.

"Better getch'er things, boy, we'll be arriving in aboot five minutes."

The captain of the boat is friendly, the air is fresh on deck, and the sun is just bright enough to cast a cheerful blanket over the landscape without making it (too) humid. Owen is having trouble picturing a more perfect way to enter the campground where he'll be spending the next eight weeks.

A cooler of sodas waiting for him on the shore?

Maybe a bikini model to greet him?

Now, if only he could find his second bag of clothes…

"Alright, boy. We're 'ere!"

He emerges again from below the deck, lugging up his two bags of clothes and single grocery bag of favorite snacking delights, when his eyes first land on… land. Mouth gaping and eyes wide, the bags drop straight down onto the deck.

"Oh my God. This must be where Nature comes when it has to take a really big crap."

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It was a long drive and the dirt road has left him a little dustier than he normally likes to be. He pretends he doesn't care, but he knows he does: a man's image is his statement on himself, his personal business card to the whole world. Straight truth.

He's glad to be out of the car, out from the back seat, and away from the body odor of the driver. It was bad enough that the air had suddenly gotten humid enough to drown a dolphin – he'd been able to handle that with moderate success – but being such close proximity with another person for so long under the sun was a step too far. The driver with the tattooed biceps and scowling face? He was several lunges too far.

The man was inquisitive, overly interested in his home, his family, his reasons for joining the show, and his strategies for winning the money. He'd asked questions the entire ride from the airport and had been visibly pissed at the curt replies. The glint off of his sweaty brown forehead changed angles with every unsatisfactory answer he gave to the queries. But at least he hadn't been chummy, there were few things he hated more than adults that tried to act friendly toward teenagers, smiling knowingly and randomly attempting to drop lingo. "Hey dawg. What up?" "Wanna hang, homie?" "Far out." No… the driver had been annoyingly intrusive, but at least no one had been pretending to be his friend.

"Hey, Jamal! Nice to meet ya, dawg."

What?

He can't help but notice that the stranger has the whitest teeth of any human being he has ever seen. Even as he leaves the car with his luggage in hand he can tell that they're several shades brighter than new kitchen tile and as fake as the sincerity in his voice. Looking away from the pearly whites for fear of permanent retinal damage, he shakes his head. "You've got me confused wit someone else. Ma name's Darrel."

He laughs like Darrel just told a million dollar joke and releases his hand. "Not here, it's not! If you remember the papers, we christened you with an Island Name. In your case, we gave you the best one of them all, Jamal."

His face is unmoved. He is at a point in the day where little is going to make him happy; the best it can do is break even. And the last thing he needs is to be patronized…

Fingers tighten on the luggage handles as he grits his teeth and tries very hard to reply without spitting. "Ma. Name. Is. Darrel. _Dawg._"

In response, the smile gets turned up to eleven. "The name's Chris Maclean, homie. And a hundred thousand dollar check says yours is Jamal."

No response. They both stare at each other like an old Western, only with luggage and hair gel instead of guns and cowboy hats. The only tumbleweed in Muskoka rolls dramatically between the two.

"Fine," the host admits and laughs like it's all jokes between good friends. He throws up a hand playfully as if to bat away the humor of the situation. "We'll compromise! As supreme commander and host of TDI, I hereby crown you 'DJ.' Learn it. Love it. Use it."

A small suitcase plunks down on a nearby picnic table and pops open, facing Chris. "In exchange for our little concession, you must wear this…"

His hand exits the suitcase gingerly holding a piece of cloth, white as his teeth, and the size of a small rag. With a flick, it travels across the clearing and flops into the hold of a very surprised boy.

DJ turns it over in his hands and stretches it out. Raising it up, and slowly puts it on an imaginary mannequin in front of him. He lifts an eyebrow and stares bemusedly back the host.

"Are you tryin' to Kwanzaa me?"

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"Oh, God. How did I get into this mess?" he mutters. Sighing with resignation, he looks down at his t-shirt and touches an index finger to the outline of the palm stretched across his chest. "Can you believe this? It's a handprint. A. Hand. Print. _I_ could've made this shirt and—"

He looks around and finds himself alone in the tent.

"…and you left while I was talking." Moving a tent flap, he mumbles after the girl that left the room amid his rant: "Thanks for the help, Kriste—Britt—Ange—um, uh… Make-up… Girl…"

The reflection in the full-length mirror on the inside of the tent entrance recaptures his eye, pushing his new image back to his attention.

"Shaggy hair. When did I ever have shaggy hair?"

Fingers run over his head. They'd required him to grow it out and go to a high-class hair salon downtown after he got the letter. No real explanation, just something about "character portrayal" and a "look they were going for." It was fine by him, the competition and the hair; there was no one at school to make fun of him for it, and his parents thought it was a great way for him to "change himself up and meet new people." It didn't bother him in the least; after all, he was getting a hundred dollar shirt out of it.

"You are so cool, aren't you? Think you're big and bad 'cause you've got a fancy shirt and… a camo undershirt… on? Yeah, you're a real smooth criminal, aren't you…?" His hand pulls a small, crumpled scrap of paper. "…Trent?"

Eyes on his reflection, he laughs and throws out his hands like he heard a million dollar joke. The hilarity doesn't convince anybody.

"How is anybody ever going to believe in you?"

The reflection shakes its head with disappointment, all trace of laughter far gone from his clean-shaved face. His eyes wander around the mirrored world until they settle on an object laying flat on the folding chair near the back of the tent.

"Oh, God. How am I gonna play that thing?"

He'd been told to begin learning how to play the guitar as a start to his transition into some sort of hipster or something, but a mix of excitement and apathy had prevented him from setting out on that task.

"Oh well, I'll just blend in and try not to get put on the spot too many times. Maybe I won't even have to play in front of anybody. Heh, yeah."

Outside and a short ways off, he spies a small crowd of people his age gathering around Chris as he stands at a podium. Taking a deep breath, he steps away from the mirror and nods his head.

"Time to go be Mr. Cool."

He was gonna have to do some serious work on his lines…

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	5. Arrival: Mogul, Roaches

"Each one of you twenty campers is here because you want to be."

They shift stances, but keep their eyes plastered on the blinding smile.

"Remember that when the going gets tough: the only thing keeping you here is your signature on a contract and your own desire to win."

Some of them nod to themselves; some of them just stare; a few of them get uneasy.

"And I'll tell you right now that things are going to be rough. This isn't a typical reality show and you will not be facing typical threats."

"What do you mean 'threats,' eh?" a boy with a green ski hat and hoodie asks with confusion.

"That's an excellent question. But if you have to ask it, then you didn't read your contract closely enough, _Ezekiel_."

The green-clad lad wisely decides to close his mouth and avoid further attention. The spiteful emphasis on the name makes him also decide he doesn't like the man with the eerily white smile.

"Your number one priority here is to act. To play your character convincingly and win the grand prize. In this regard, your every act and movement will be taped, edited, and televised. Your every word and breath will be recorded, mixed, and placed into the mouth of your delightful fictional personas.

"Speaking of personas, you are encouraged to take this very seriously. While you're not required to stay in character at all times, I can tell you that even the slightest bit of slacking may be taken into consideration when splitting the losers from the winner. Because you're not here to get others to like you, you're here to impress _**us**_ by playing your part better than anyone else and earn your place in the finals. I will reveal your secondary priorities to you as I deem necessary, but they will play a large role in your future. Don't worry, you have my word that I'll keep each one of you informed of events as they arise."

He flashes a smile and meets the eyes of nearly every camper. Only DJ and the pale girl with the homemade dye job avert their eyes; _he_ doesn't give two shakes of a leper's dick about anything Chris could possibly say, and _she_ feels more uncomfortable than she ever has before, leaving her looking for any way off the island.

"As all of you know," he begins again, "I am Chris Maclean, actor, producer, and multimedia enterprise mogul. As all of you will _come_ to know, I like when things go according to plan." His eyes quickly sweep the audience, taking in their attentive faces. "When you were contacted, you were given two general instructions in addition to your personal instructions: one, respond to the invitation within twenty-four hours, and two, maintain yourself healthy at all costs. Everybody standing here followed those rules excellently, but as your basic math skills will tell you, not all of you are here. Two of your fellow contestants decided to ignore those requirements. One phoned in 36 hours after contact, and the other had the audacity to get a cold the morning he was leaving. That's why we've decided—YOU!"

Twenty heads spin around in the direction of his outstretched finger to face a brunette girl walking a distance away. She slowly stops in her tracks and turns to the large gathering. Even from twenty yards away, the group can tell she is nervous.

"Wh-Who, me?"

"Yeah, make up intern, I am talking to YOU!"

She takes a tentative step forward and Trent immediately recognizes her as the girl who he was trying to chat with in the tent only moments ago.

"Wh-Who needs help with their make-u—?"

"No. Change of plans. Your name is Beth and you're part of the game."

"What? What do I—?"

"And YOU."

The heads make their way back to Chris and the blonde standing beside him with a pained look on his face.

"Whatever-the-hell intern you are. You've been promoted. Your name is Geoff. Put this on." He pushes a fluorescent pink button-up into his face. "You'll also want to wear _this_ like your life depends on it."

A cowboy hat slowly drifts to a stop at his feet. The former intern bends down and collects the head wear off the ground while muttering to himself. "What am I supposed to be, a gay John Wayne?

"…Fifteen, twenty, twenty-two. Now that all the players are accounted for, I'd like to give you the chance to settle in and meet each other at your own pace."

The teenagers sigh and a collective drop of the shoulder seems to sweep the group as the host continues. "I'm saying 'I'd like to say…' because I'm not going to. As of this moment, the only things each you have of your new character are a name, some pieces of wardrobe, and small behavioral hints. That's why I'm giving you fifteen hours to write down absolutely everything about yourselves. Your _former _selves, that is. This will be instrumental in crafting the personas we're preparing for you and is absolutely required. The most thorough and convincing job will earn its creator a cash reward and our favor before this party even starts!"

The contestants stare dumbfounded at the beaming host.

"And before another one of you geniuses like our friend _Ezekiel_ there asks, I _**am**_ aware that this first assignment may cut into your sleep time. To that, I say: get used to it. The mess hall will be open from 7:00 to 7:45 a.m. — if you can spare the time! — and then we'll collect the submissions at 8 o'clock on the dot. Anybody who needs light throughout the night can use the campfire between the cabins. You are now dismissed for the evening to go to your cabins. Good luck, campers, and welcome to Total. Drama. Island!"

Twenty-two pairs of eyes watch Chris hop off the stump and stroll away from the mass gathering. A few seconds of silence pass before each person's attention settles on the other. Without saying much else, they each grab their respective bags and make their way to the cabins.

w a x c h a r a c t e r

It takes forty-five minutes for the guys to kill enough bugs to feel safe setting down their bags on the cabin floor. Few words are exchanged, but the shared act seems to be enough to break the ice among the complete strangers and the dialogue begins.

"Hey man, that was kinda… lame of Chris to single you out there, uh…. Ezekiel. I… uh… That really… sucked." Geoff finishes buttoning his new shirt and tries to reassure himself that he didn't sound like a complete loser. But he knows he did.

"Yeah," he answers, "I don't know what point he was trying to prove, eh? It seems unlikely that he actually believed I was mentally deficient and he must know that I'm enrolled at the University of Toronto."

"Woah, what?" the teen with the green mohawk asks in the middle of rifling through a suitcase. "I thought there was an age cap for this show. Don't you have to be like sixteen to seventeen?"

"Oh, I am, eh. I just skipped a couple grades. Studied hard and took some stuff early. I'm trying to get through school as fast as I can and get a job to support my folks. We own a farm and things really aren't goin' so well, so the sooner I get working, the sooner I can help Mom and Dad hold the place." He stomped on a roach and smiled weakly. "That's why I decided to be a part of this competition. When I win that prize money, it will definitely help us stay in… business…"

His smile and speech trail off as every eye in the room avoids direct contact. Everyone manages to be completely engrossed in fiddling with bags, zipping and re-zipping the same pouches absentmindedly. The look on all of their faces makes it clear that they each have their own valid reasons for wining.

"I guess everybody's got their own story, eh?"

The mutual acknowledgment seems to lighten the mood of the room, and they continue trying to unpack their belongings into the few secure, clean nooks they can find.

"There really is no point in unpacking is there?" The boy straightens up from looking beneath the bed and continues. "Everything here is so bug-infested and mold-ridden, I'm pretty sure if I put my clothes anywhere outside of my suitcase, they'll be gone when I wake up."

Several heads nod in agreement but no one laughs.

"By the way, my name is… _Duncan_, I guess."

Some of the others nod and smile, knowing that it's as much a pseudonym as the name they're going to use to introduce themselves. But no one says much else as the sky darkens outside and it becomes more difficult to see in the poorly windowed and ventilated cabin.

Duncan watches the setting sun and reaches for a pad of paper; tucking a pen behind his ear, he reaches the door and is the first out the door toward the already started campfire and the other half of the campers. From the aloofness of the cabin, there was nothing telling him that he would find an easier experience with any of the girls.

He imagined it was going to be a very long night.

w a x c h a r a c t e r


End file.
